


What do you do with a general, when she stops being a general?

by Anonymississippi



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Holiday Movie fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mistletoe fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 15:49:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8897989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymississippi/pseuds/Anonymississippi
Summary: Oh, what do you do with a general who retires?
With Hank denying her petition to join the DEO full-time, Astra is feeling listless this Christmas season. Perhaps a holiday movie and prodding from her special agent roommate will help Astra find new purpose.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the holiday classic White Christmas. I could probably write an entire White Christmas AU with Astra as the General in that film (General Danvers, ofc).
> 
> Consider this a Christmas present to all the General Danvers fans out there! I know some of you are feeling a little down from some fandom pushback, so I hope this fluff picks you up! Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, everybody!

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Can you grab the colander?”

“Pardon? The…what?”

“The colander,” Alex repeats, giving the limp noodles another poke with the wooden spoon. She has two boilers of softening spaghetti roiling on the burners since Kara and Astra both will be eating tonight; two Kryptonians plus a male north of six-feet seemed reason enough to purchase the nearly five pounds of ground beef she’s using to prep for meatballs. Parsley, garlic cloves, and tiny slivers of grated Parmesan overrun the kitchen counter. A fine layer of bread crumbs and black pepper flakes cakes Astra’s elegant hands.

Not that Alex has been paying attention to Astra’s hands, or her pretty smile…or her face in general. At all.

_Right._

“It’s a bowl with holes in it,” Alex says.

“Seems rather pointless for a bowl,” Astra grumbles, stooping to her knees and flinging Alex’s bottom cabinet doors open. She rummages about as Alex pulls spices and plump red tomatoes from the reusable shopping bag, having recently returned from an exhausting excursion to the corner market.

She had needed to get some food in the house per Kara’s request; tonight was the first “pre-holiday meal” she and James would be sharing with portions of Kara’s family since they coupled up, and, understandably, Kara wanted it to go over well. (“It’s like a test run for when Eliza comes down,” Kara had explained. “Plus with Hank there to be all surly and protective, it might help to have a few family members on James’s side?”) Which meant bare cupboards and a fridge absent of even the most basic nutritional sources would not do for the evening’s festivities.

Cue the excursion to the market.

And if Alex goes out, so goes Astra. It was part of the deal brokered sixth months ago when Astra was placed on temporary house arrest with Alex as her guard, a tentative truce between Supergirl’s unwavering trust in her supposedly-reformed eco-terrorist aunt and the DEO’s justified suspicions and caution regarding said supposedly-reformed eco-terrorist aunt. Alex guards Astra. Supergirl gets her family back. Wins across the board for those involved and all laid to rest with the help of a tracker, an elite agent, and a minuscule Kryptonite chip embedded under the flesh of Astra’s forearm, until she could prove herself.

Of course, the rules and addendums added willy-nilly to that agreement had more or less been tossed by the wayside in recent weeks (the Kryptonite had come out after month two). Now, the supposedly-reformed eco-terrorist aunt leaves the apartment of her own accord to fetch things when needed, and Astra—a mysteriously late riser for a former military leader—does not always accompany Alex to her morning PT sessions.

(“I was a military leader before you were born, Alexandra. I have earned my rest.”

“I don’t think your time in the Phantom Zone counts—”

“Attempt to remove me from this bed and I will burn down your apartment.”

“That might be grounds for an incident report, Astra… Astra? Ugh, whatever.”)

The first morning Astra had checked in at the DEO separately from Alex didn’t even cause that much of a stir. She had single-handedly saved an entire squadron of operatives from walking into a Curliliran ambush the previous weekend, and was still held in rather high regard by everyone in that squadron (it just so happened that Alex had been leading the team, and was out in front during the proceeding rain of acid fire. Alex likes to tell herself the noxious fumes from Curliliran poison were what made Astra’s eyes sparkle so much during that infiltration).

And so they’ve moved from that hostile state between prisoner and guardian into one shared between semi-reluctant roommates, the _reluctance_ portion evaporating more and more with each passing day. Astra studies the colander as she hands it over to Alex, then turns back to wash her hands at the sink with a thoughtful expression.

Alex finds herself thinking about Astra often, about what she’s thinking, how she perceives human culture, sometimes even what Astra thinks of _her_ (then Alex immediately berates herself for letting her ego overrun her sense). Their friendship formed by accident, by default, thanks to proximity and an ever-healing bit of time, with Kara and Lady Redemption prodding them consistently along. So, through the duration of this not-so-trial-period, Alex has taken it upon herself to integrate this imperious, charming, surprisingly vulnerable alien into human society with as gentle a guiding hand as Alex thought Astra could stomach. So far, so good, cause no one’s killed anybody yet. The death threats haven’t resurfaced since the incident with the washing machine, and the arson suspicions stopped once Alex figured out she should just let Astra sleep late.

“Scoot,” Alex nudges Astra with an elbow and hefts the huge boiler up with both hands.

“Alex, what are you—”

“Stick the colander in the sink.”

“Oh, like this?”

“Yeah, we’re good,” Alex tilts the boiler over and piping hot liquid splashes up the sides of the shallow basin. Astra stares at the noodles flopping into the holey bowl. “Back up, it’s—not going to burn you. Right. Well, it’s how we separate the noodles from all the water that boils the starch off.”

“The holes are necessary, then.”

“Hmh,” Alex answers, poking her tongue out between her lips as she concentrates on not burning the hell out of her hand during the perilous noodle transfer of boiler number two. The sauce and meatballs have been simmering for over an hour and her kitchen smells almost as good as Giovani's Italian place back home in Midvale.

“Allow me,” Astra says, juggling the hot pots in hand and depositing the prepared noodles in another container as Alex retrieves the cutting board.

“Thanks. It’s nice having another pair of hands in here.”

Astra inclines her head in agreement.

“Why do you never cook for us?”

“Why do _you_ never cook for us?”

“I was not sure I…well, if I am able to retrieve the necessary ingredients without your supervision, perhaps that is a hobby I could take up?” Astra suggests, leaning against the counter top. Her left hip juts just below the utensil drawer, tomato sauce from the surface rubbing into her shirt. Astra doesn’t seem to notice. The fabric (of most of her shirts) is black, and might very well not belong to her since she and Alex typically toss their laundry into the wash together (though the sorting of clothes has gotten more difficult ever since the Kryptonian roommate acquisition).

Alex attempts to stop thinking about Astra in her form-fitting black clothing and refocus her energies on what Astra’s saying: “Your director’s reluctance concerning my petition to join the DEO has left me with very little to do.”

“You’ve been on tons of missions,” Alex argues, taking out the remaining half onion and oregano. She adds more spice to the sauce and passes the vegetable to the lady holding the kitchen knife with far more dexterity than most civilians would be comfortable with. “Dice it?”

“Certainly,” Astra takes the onion and starts to peel the flaky outer layer off. “But I do not mean mission work. I mean the day-to-day. He has no qualms about putting me in the front line of fire.”

“He wouldn’t deliberately—”

“I am not saying I fault him for it. It is excellent strategy, Alexandra, to send myself and Supergirl into the fray first off. It will likely not do us irreparable harm and helps to make an initial assessment of the surroundings. But I wish I was more involved beyond the briefings and the occasional raids. Wish I had…purpose.”

“Please tell me you’re not looking for another world-dominating crusade,” Alex says, plopping the top back on the sauce. Astra cuts uncertain eyes in her direction and continues chopping, the dull _thud_ of blade echoing off the cutting board in the silence.

“That… that was a joke.”

“Hmh.”

“Astra, you know we… we— _I_ —trust you now, right? I wouldn’t have made that joke if I didn’t.” She rinses her hands and pats them dry with a dishtowel, fetching salad ingredients from the shelves of the fridge so she doesn’t have to meet Astra’s sad eyes. A beat passes as she scours the side shelves for Italian dressing, so she decides to redirect: “I could talk to Hank about getting you a job.”

She only just makes it to the counter with her armful of ingredients before the croutons wiggle their way out from under her elbow and send the whole precarious load scattering atop the counter.

“Why give me a job when I could be your next Celebrity Chef?” Astra asks, that hard edge softened somewhat after Alex’s culinary misstep. “I do not imagine many humans on your cooking network could roast entrees with their vision.” Astra tosses the remaining quarter of the onion up and minces it with speed that leaves Alex flabbergasted, the tiny onion bites falling like odorous snowflakes into a pile on the cutting board.

“You’d definitely have a leg up there,” Alex laughs, nudging Astra’s arm again as she settles back into position beside her, palms loaded down with salad fixin’s that haven’t rolled out of her reach. “We’ll figure something out.”

“I have every faith in you, Alexandra.”

“Lettuce next?”

“Let us… what?”

“Ha, _lettuce_ ,” Alex says again, feeling tingles skitter down her spine from the top of her skull, all along her legs to finally burst through the tips of her toes. It’s like the first warmth of a shower, like an egg cracked overhead and every nerve ending standing at attention, tracing the sticky yolk’s path as it traverses her skin. Why salad-making and casual conversation should spark such a feeling, Alex can’t fathom. But, pleasant feelings are hard to come by with the stress of her job, so she decides to enjoy the sensation instead of interrogating it to death, thrilled by the spreading heat that occurs when Astra returns her chuckle. She takes the head of lettuce and starts chopping.

“We’d need to work on your on-camera personality,” Alex says, removing carrots from the produce bag. “You know, for your Celebrity Chef appearance.”

“I have plenty of personality,” Astra deadpans, sneering, twisting the tip of her knife into her index finger for effect.

“That you do,” Alex says, smiling like a fool into her carrots. “But we need to hurry this up. James and Kara will be over any minute.”

“As you wish, Alexandra.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Kara, no!”

“Kara _yes_!” Kara squeals, pushing past Alex with a box the size of a fourth grader slung over one shoulder, another propped precariously on her opposite hip. It’s a wonder she doesn’t splinter the doorframe barging in with such enthusiasm. “Aunt Astra!”

“James,” Alex groans, turning to the man who knows how to make a good impression. She relieves him of the double bottle of Cabernet and clutches at it like a saving grace: “You could have stopped this.”

“You try stopping Kara on a mission,” James laughs, setting down two smaller boxes atop the side table in Alex’s living area. “She knows you never bother to decorate because she always hosts, but she didn’t want you missing out.”

“I’m not missing out on post-holiday clean-up,” Alex grumbles, turning over her shoulder to find Kara with half a Christmas tree already set up in the corner beside her fireplace. “I’m not here enough to enjoy it.”

“Speak for yourself, Alexandra.” Astra appears behind her from the kitchen, studying Kara with a quizzical expression. “Though the aesthetics of arboreal decoration indoors are rather beyond my understanding of human culture, we should let Kara have her fun.”

“It’s a Christmas tree,” James explains, gesturing haplessly toward Kara. “How are you, Astra?”

“Well enough,” Astra answers, crossing her arms over her chest as she focuses that militaristic attention on her niece. “Alexandra has left me to her stove.”

“Hardly,” Alex argues, squeezing Astra’s bicep playfully. They both look down at the motion, Astra with confusion, Alex with surprise.

What could have possessed her to wrap her fingers round Astra’s arm so casually? They touch far more at the DEO, on the infrequent occasions that Hank allows Astra into the training rooms. But at home, in their—in _Alex’s_ apartment—their touches are incidental and few, never anything as deliberate as this comforting pressure of solidarity, of some compulsion Alex was unable to curtail. It must be the holiday buzz, all the Christmas talk happening despite her objections. That’s the only thing Alex can think up to excuse herself, and so she releases Astra instantly and decides not to stew over it, their finished dinner likely needing her attention back in the kitchen.

“If you feel like I’ve been taking advantage of your culinary labors, feel free to abandon me and keep Kara in line,” Alex plows forward, pretending the touch at Astra’s arm didn’t cause a butterfly revolt in her abdomen. “We’ll be ready to eat in ten minutes.”

“The garlic toast is in the oven,” Astra calls over her shoulder, approaching a determined Kara who, it would seem, is already half-way through stringing garland and twinkle lights across Alex’s sparse mantle. “Little One, what is all of this?” Alex hears Astra ask, as she and James escape into the kitchen.

“You mind?” James asks, taking a cloth and lifting the lid of the pot to get a whiff of the sauce.

“No, go ahead,” Alex says, passing over a clean tasting spoon. “It’s still not quite right. You think I need more garlic powder? Basil?”

“I’d add another bay leaf and let it simmer a few more minutes,” James says, washing his spoon in the sink. “Though that’s just my taste buds talking. I don’t want to hold off dinner any longer than we have to.”

“No, it’s alright,” Alex says, grinning as she turns back to the Kryptonians in the living room. Kara has spread all of the Christmas décor—baubles of ornaments, lights, candles, holly and mistletoe sprigs, a nutcracker, and one overlarge wreath bedecked with a red bow—across the cushions of Alex’s couch. Astra is kneeling next to her, listening intently as Kara explains what each item is.

The warmth from earlier resurges tenfold, and Alex decides to preserve the moment of joy for as long as she can.

“We’ve got some time,” Alex addresses James, who has busied himself with plating a tin full of cookies, no doubt handmade by a superhero and her vigilante boyfriend prior to arrival. “James, can you set the table while this finishes?” Alex asks, standing on tip-toes to pull the good plates down from the top shelf. She then tugs on the handle of the miscellaneous drawer and extracts her favorite kitchen appliance that doubles as interrogation incentive: the corkscrew. “You know, I can never remember what side the forks go on.”

 

* * *

 

 

“The title is a little on the nose, don’t you think?” James says to Kara.

“What is on his nose?” Astra leans in close to ask Alex, their thighs barely brushing from their positions on the couch.

Alex feels the heat from time spent perched over the stove radiate from the skin of Astra’s neck. Maybe the logs are set too high for an evening in National City, even if it is mid-December. Then again, the recurring, tingly, not-at-all-unpleasant sensation might have nothing to do with the apartment climate control, and instead with the complicated feelings that Alex has been working out over the past few months. Perhaps those feelings, new and unexplored and a little bit frightening, are the reason why she wants Astra to share in that intense warmth that smells of apple cinnamon, Christmas cookies, and comfort.

Alex smirks and whispers back: “You owe me another dollar.”

“No! That cannot be another one.”

“Another what?” Kara asks, pausing the film so Alex and Astra will stop whispering amongst themselves.

“It’s more slang she doesn’t get,” Alex says.

“Why would humans put film titles on their noses?!” Astra huffs, rising rigidly from her position at the couch's end to retrieve another plateful of spaghetti.

“Aunt Astra, it just means that the title is… exceedingly appropriate. When things are ‘on the nose’, they’re really exact.”

“No subtly,” Alex says, watching Astra assault her noodles with more grated Parmesan, quick to catch the loose lid from the shaker when it opens after her forceful flourish with the cheese. Astra refills her glass with water from the sink and returns to the couch, sitting as far away from Alex as possible, pouting over her misunderstanding.

“So… _White Christmas_? The Christmas is too… white?” Astra asks, twirling the fork like Alex taught her, using the spoon to herd the noodles into position with the tines.

Astra is an adult decades older than everyone in the room, but the simple task of preparing a mouthful of dinner had taken far more time than Astra would like to admit for her to master. Alex recalls a harrowing ordeal during their first month living together when Astra zapped the toaster to charred metallic goop once two pieces of bread shot up, catching a sleepy General off-guard early one morning. Alex had been mad but also crying from laughter, loving the way Astra’s rosy cheeks darkened in her embarrassment. But Astra’s adjustments were not limited to human appliances and utensils. Or transport, or religion, or language, or personal space. Alex knows _everything_ was different on Krypton, and also knows Astra can’t shake the feeling that she’ll never be completely at home on this planet, no matter what reuniting with her niece did for her stubborn pride, debunking the notion that failing on Krypton meant she had to go to extremes to save Earth. It had taken damnable _time_ for Astra to come clean about her struggles, and Alex was still digging deeper into the woman’s insecurities, her neuroses, her preferences and her history. If only she could… speed things up a bit.

“Maybe black people weren’t welcome in Vermont in 1954,” James says.

“Or the film industry as a whole,” Alex grunts, reaching for her hot chocolate _._ “Or now, for that matter. Look at the 2016 Oscars.” Lifting the cup to her lips, she swallows, scowls, then begins to rise.

“Is it not palatable?” Astra asks, dabbing at a wayward smear of tomato sauce coloring her lip.

“’not hot,” Alex says, trying not to fixate on the smear, Astra’s fingers, her lips…

“May I?”

“Oh…sure.”

The mug-hand-off complete, Astra glares laser beams into the frothy white surface of the liquid, relenting only when Alex taps at her shoulder.

“You burnt my marshmallows.”

“My apologies, I—I can get more. I need to wash this dish…”

“Are you two settled yet?” Kara calls from where she’s sprawled out on the armchair. “Can we start the movie yet?”

“Go on, Little One, I will be back.”

Kara presses play and the opening number finishes. Watching _White Christmas_ is a holiday tradition that was lost during Alex’s tenure in college, but was summarily revived once Kara moved down to National City with her. A huge home-cooked dinner with enough helpings to bust a gut, followed by spiced cider or hot chocolate or mulled wine (for Alex), surrounded by excessive decorations and the annual dollar store cinnamon-apple candle Kara claims smells like Kryptonian leaves. It’s how the Danvers sisters usher in the season. This year, Alex and Kara have extended their circles and it seems just as nice, the coziness of the tradition in no way spoiled by the increase in numbers.

A plate shatters behind her once the bombing starts on screen. They all turn to find Astra holding two jagged pieces of stoneware in hand, frowning as her focus shifts from the teetering brick wall on screen to the running faucet in front of her.

“Sorry,” Astra mumbles, her eyes growing large as she watches the bricks rain over the WWII soldiers.

“I got it,” Alex nods at a concerned Kara and rises, waving a hand back to the film so James and Kara will allow Astra to recover herself without an audience.

“Hey,” Alex says, lowering her voice as the scene shifts, the dialogue picking back up again. “Sorry, I should’ve warned you about the movie.”

“No, it’s… just the sound was… familiar. I didn’t realize the film would—”

“That’s really the last of it,” Alex stage-whispers, keeping her voice low as she turns uncertainly over her shoulder. “It’s all romance and showtunes from here on out, but Kara loves it.”

“It is not one of your preferred films?” Astra asks, placing the broken plate pieces down in the sink.

“If we’re talking classics, I like _It’s a Wonderful Life_ , I guess. Better yet, I thought _Home Alone_ was the pinnacle of cinema when I was ten. His entire house was a massive Rube Goldberg machine, like, this huge feat of engineering for a kid.” Alex reaches for the extra bag of mini marshmallows Kara brought along and shakes some into her palm, giving Astra every opportunity to settle herself without the pressure of everyone’s stares. “But I always reread _A Christmas Carol_ if I have time,” Alex tacks on, popping one marshmallow into her mouth.

“This holiday spawns many stories.”

“Kinda big for some humans,” Alex answers. “At least in America, anyway. You… okay now?”

“Yes, the scene was merely unexpected. With any violent films, you usually warn me, so—”

“Yeah, dropped the ball this time.”

“What ball?”

It’s so adorably guileless that Alex can’t help the large smile, spreading like Christmas cheer sung loud for all to hear, right across her face.

“That’s another dollar,” Alex says.

Astra rolls her eyes and forcibly turns Alex around by the shoulders, returning the casual touching Alex had ventured earlier in the night. “Let us go back to this film before I lose interest in the story.”

“…bring the marshmallows.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Come on, Alex! We’re up.”

“No. I’m not doing this, it’s embarrassing.”

“We do it _every_ year.”

“Then let’s start a new tradition where we don’t get up and sing this stupid—”

“ _Sisters! Sisters!_ ” Kara crows, dragging Alex off the couch by the ankle, much to the flabbergasted delight of James and Astra both. “ _Never were there such devoted sisters!_ ”

Alex misses her usual part because Kara has taken to using her leg as a microphone stand, singing like a madwoman into her black boot. James is whooping, encouraging them both with well-timed bouts of applause, and Astra can’t stop smirking. They watch as Kara prances around the living room, singing along with Rosemary Clooney at the top of her lungs.

“ _Never had to have a chaperone, no sir!_ ”

Alex staggers upward reluctantly and shoves Kara to the side, falling into choreographed steps she wishes she could forget: “ _I’m here to keep my eye on HER!_ ”

She sings and sways, her cheeks heating to uncomfortable degrees when Astra turns her attention from Kara to her, that perfectly rounded eye-brow lifted skyward in unfettered amusement. Thank god they make it through to the dance break and proceed to do the elaborate clapping handshake they’ve added a move to every year since this absurdity began, listening to Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye arguing over their eye color in the background. When the song finishes, Alex rounds on James, pointing threateningly to the man sitting in her grey armchair:

“ _Lord help the mister, who comes between me and my sister_.”

Kara interjects, shoving Alex back to her spot on the couch as she finishes up the song: “ _And Lord help the sister, who comes between me and my man!_ ”

Kara high fives James without even making eye contact as she spins into place to sit beside him on the arm of the overstuffed chair. It was too perfect of a dismount for Kara not to have given James a heads-up, for the pair of them to have _practiced_ before even coming for movie night. She gives him a peck on the lips and Alex swears she hears Kara whisper _good job_ as she pulls back.

“Dork,” Alex calls, scrabbling against the couch.

“Nerd!”

“As charming as that was,” Astra calls, righting Alex (who had been pushed practically _on top of_ Astra in the process), “let’s return to the film, shall we?”

Alex reins in her embarrassment, sliding an appropriate distance away from Astra on her couch and trying not to think about how Astra had merely rolled with her stumble, catching Alex and holding her so securely Alex hadn’t any reason to feel uncomfortable after the little song and dance. The movie continues, and soon she hears Astra gasp as the characters discuss their plans for General Waverley. When Alex sneaks a glance in her direction, Astra’s eyes are glued to the screen.

Another fifteen minutes, another number, and of course their snug holiday spell is broken thanks to malicious mischief. James’s phone rings so Kara pauses the movie.

“What’s up Winn? Okay, where… yeah, I’ll, hold on, lemme talk to Kara—”

“Hostages at the mall on Tartt Avenue?” Kara asks, her brows furrowing over her eyes.

“Three shooters, something like… mass holiday mugging?”

“Alien involvement?” Alex asks immediately, standing at attention in an instant.

“No, just your run-of-the-mill criminals taking advantage of the stressed masses while they’ve got a lot of cash on them,” James answers seriously. “Supergirl, ready for a team up? Winn’s already on his way with the van.”

“Let’s go, Guardian!” Kara says, already waiting in her Supergirl suit-and-cape combo by the window. “Rain check, Alex?”

“Yes, and call me when you’re done!”

“James, let’s go—”

“Call me when you’re finished, Kara!” Alex yells, hopping off the couch to shut the balcony doors behind them. She turns back round and leans against them, lets her head thud back as she shuts her eyes. “She’s going to get caught up with James and Winn and head out for celebratory drinks without calling first.”

“She will be fine,” Astra says, snagging a cookie from the platter on the coffee table. “James, however, I am slightly more concerned for.”

“I don’t know how long he and Winn are going to keep up with this Guardian kick.”

“He could soon become a liability to Kara. In the heat of battle, the mission should come first. Fellow soldiers… oftentimes comrades become sidetracked trying to save each other; then the objective remains incomplete.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Alex says, plopping back down on the couch. “I like James, y’know? I think he’s pretty good for Kara.”

“He is an honorable man,” Astra agrees, catching a cookie crumble as the pastry breaks in half. Alex hates that she’s fixated on a damn grain of coagulated flour and sugar clinging to Astra’s mouth.

“Though… I believe it is his ego that lures him into confrontation,” Astra continues. “Think of it. Everyone within his circle plays an important role in combat. You, Kara, your friend Major Lane. Even Mr. Schott has taken up a position at the DEO. He feels… excluded.”

“You don’t have to punch people to be a hero,” Alex says, finishing off the last of her luke-warm hot cocoa, deliberately _not_ looking at Astra’s cookie-sweet lips. Astra turns to the dish of Christmas peppermints and unwraps one, pops it into her mouth and settles back, waiting for Alex to continue. “I wish Cat Grant was still here to tell Kara and James that.”

“The Queen of the Media,” Astra says round her mint.

“Correct,” Alex says, setting her mug aside.

“Did she make this film?”

“This was made in 1954.”

“And?”

“Lead with that the next time you see her,” Alex suggests innocently, taking the remote. “Want to turn in?”

Astra pulls a blanket down from the back of the couch and carefully tucks the edges beneath her legs. Alex knows Astra can’t really get cold, but Astra has always gravitated toward finer, loose-fitting fabrics. When she’d first moved in, Astra had been treated to an adventure in a mass-market homegoods store; she ran her fingers over the sample swatch of silk bedding and had begged Alex for a set, had promised to fly to Chicago once a week to retrieve Alex’s lunch if Kara would only show her where the food truck was located. They were expensive—like, down payment on a used Ducati expensive—but the spare bedroom has been quiet ever since Alex helped Astra dress the bed, whimpers and mutterings silenced by something as simple as a fitted sheet. It’s the textures, the relaxed softness without a hint of friction to the materials (unlike the scratchy cottons and skin-tight cling of her military wear) that are comforting to Astra, possibly reminiscent of some forgotten sensation on Krypton.

Alex thinks about the plush black bathrobe she’s got hidden in her closet, one big silver bow stuck on top of a craptastic wrapping job. She hopes it’s not strange, giving her roommate a robe for Christmas… she really just wants her towel back, and for Astra to _stop wearing towels as loungewear._

“Into what?” Astra asks, circling back to her previous question.

Alex shakes her head and lets Astra keep her dollar, seeing how settled she is. “I meant go to sleep. Or did you want to finish the movie?”

“Oh, we should finish, please,” Astra returns, twisting her neck back to stare at the screen. Alex takes one long look at Astra’s profile in the twilight, and wonders why she can’t seem to _get the words out,_ the ones where she says _I think you're beautiful and brave and nights like this I've never wanted to hold you more_.

“I would very much like to see how it all turns out,” Astra says.

“Okay,” Alex says, flicking the play button on the remote and settling into her spot on the couch, doing her best not to notice Astra’s repositioning that moves her scant inches closer.

The further into the movie they get, the more engrossed Astra becomes. Alex has seen this movie 17,598.27 times thanks to Kara and Eliza, but has never been particularly engaged by the plot. She was more distracted by the dance numbers and the costumes and the way Vera Ellen’s legs flew over her head. But then Alex really starts to puzzle out the story: two WWII vets-turned-showman, meeting up with their former general, trying to do what they can to show that all the sacrifices on their behalves as soldiers weren’t forgotten. Alex disagrees with the romanticism of it all, because war is bloody and hard and painful. It can’t be glossed over with kisses and tap numbers. But the interplay between superiors and their troops gives her pause—Alex wonders if she could ever forget Hank, if the years under his tutelage would ever evaporate should she move to another division, or, what’s even less likely, get a civilian job somewhere. Astra watches the movie and Alex watches Astra, and once they get to the scene where Bing Crosby makes the pitch in song for the entire battalion of soldiers to travel upstate to the General’s inn, Alex begins wondering if this was a horrible idea:

_What can you do with a General, when he stops being a General? Oh, what do you do with a General who retires?_

As if she and Astra hadn’t been standing over the stove during meal preparation, hashing out that exact question.

_Who’s got a job for a General, when he stops being a General? They all get a job but a General no one hires_.

It’s worse than unemployment, the loss of a crusade or purpose, for those things can be rekindled, newer interests discovered. But it’s completely different when there’s no one left to remember you.

_They’re delighted that he came, but they can’t recall his name._

“My apologies, Alexandra, I… I need to step outside for a moment,” Astra says abruptly, standing and retreating with anxious super speed.

“Astra? Astra, it’s…”

Alex sighs, stands, follows, because she might not know what these feelings mean whenever she looks at Astra, whenever she hears her gasp or feels their fingers brush (or maybe she does know, just doesn’t quite want to acknowledge them fully, not yet, not with the fuzziness and joy-inducing cheer of Christmas right around the corner to distract her from harsher realities).

But she doesn’t want to leave Astra sad on her balcony, thinking about all the troops she once oversaw and how none of them will be able to do something like those stupid movie characters did for their fictional superior.

“Hey,” Alex says, leaning against the railing alongside Astra, purposefully not commenting as the woman swipes discreetly beneath her eyelids. “Some pinnacle of cinema, huh?”

Astra takes a moment to collect herself, propping her elbows atop the railing and leaning out, mimicking Alex’s position. “Captain Darian Xu-Myl,” Astra whispers, her thumbs twirling over each other, her focus attuned to the motion and never wavering. “My second in command.”

Alex doesn’t respond. She doesn’t feel she needs to.

“She… she was a character witness at my trial,” Astra says, clenching her nervous hands into fists. “She died in flames on Krypton.”

“Astra—”

“Second Lieutenant Sol-Un, arms expert. He had… he would always personally detail my transport. Whether it was a domestic excursion or off-world, he’d say, _Ride with grace, General Astra. With pride for our craftsmanship_ ,” Astra doesn’t fidget any longer, instead turning her gaze skyward. She’s crying and she’s beautiful and Alex wants to kiss her tears away. “He was such a… what would you call it here? A show-man? Something of that nature.”

Alex places one palm over Astra’s hand and the iron grip eases slightly, but the tension is still palpable, so heartbreakingly present.

“Lir-Ab, Castor Nu-Al, Persei Na-Tul, Bell-Or…”

Alex squeezes all the harder and looks out over the city, attuned to every dropping note of Astra’s recitation of the dead.

“You’ve seen your comrades die, Alexandra?”

“Yes,” she answers, starting slightly when she feels Astra’s thumb rub over her own.

“And you mourn them?”

“In my way,” Alex lies, recalling the countless bottles she worked her miserable nights through her first year in the field. When missions were a little harder. When she made more mistakes. When the tech wasn’t as advanced, the intel less reliable, when they didn’t have Supergirl and an extra Kryptonian and a Martian or two as buffers for their deadly infiltrations.

“Is Christmas supposed to be… sad?” Astra asks her, and it takes everything within Alex not to number the Christmases her father missed.

Alex shuts her own eyes and feels the hurt collect in the creases, thinks perhaps the city itself is crying. The lights resemble fallen stars, the cosmos shedding tears that the Earth harvests by happenstance. It was more or less arbitrary that Clark ended up here. Kara, too. Astra and Fort Rozz, tugged along by chance. So much sadness unloaded on this unsuspecting planet.

“For some people… it’s probably the saddest time of the year,” Alex murmurs, wondering how Hank spent his Christmases before she and Kara came along, wondering if he’d even celebrate, wondering what equivalent Martian holiday they’ve not been paying respect to, glossing over, _forgetting,_ just as so many other refugees’ lives have been forgotten.

“Why is that?”

“Because… because it’s about being with people you care about. People you love. Family. Friends. Not everyone has that.”

When Alex looks at the city again they are no longer stars, no longer lofty, heavenly bodies but lights for every life. Kara told her about it, as Supergirl, how each light represents a life she protects. Do the two windows across the street belong to those teenage neighbors she’s seen bumming cigarettes off each other, sneaking looks and chancing touches when the other isn’t watching? Further north, back toward the financial district, one skyscraper is alight with harsh hydrogen bulbs and buzzing monitors of overworked analysts trying to get the numbers right for their fourth quarter reports before they finally, finally, get to take their breaks. And two blocks west, right near the coffee shop she runs by on her morning route… what about that decrepit old apartment complex? The one with the aging Korean dog-walker, dependent upon his cane and his Corgi to keep him mobile, keep him entertained, keep him living. Is he lonely this time of year? Does he have family other than the dog? Is his light burning with all the others, left on because there’s no one there to hold him in the darkness?

“I do.”

“Sorry?” Alex twists, turning to find Astra centimeters from her face, regarding her in that curious way she does whenever Alex does something Astra deems utterly _human_.

“I have people I care about. Kara has forgiven me, loves me, has welcomed me into her life. After everything, people care for me and I feel—I feel unworthy of such love.”

Their fingers shift on the railing but Alex can’t look down at the digits twining together, can’t divert her attention to the perfect feel of their palms rubbing against each other. Not when Astra’s offering this insecure portion of herself for Alex’s safekeeping. Not when Astra is gifting her truth to Alex days before Christmas, overlooking the city they’ve both saved time and time again. She stares at Astra and doesn’t know what to say, feels like whatever comes out might not be enough for such a tragically beautiful woman, but—for Astra’s sake—she tries:

“I don’t know if any of us really deserve it. To feel like we matter, but… I guess that’s the little bit of grace we get in this life, you know?” Alex blinks, smells the softest scent of peppermint on the breeze. “Even when we fail, people still hold us to higher standards. They believe in us, believe in something bigger. That could be Santa Claus or Rao or—I don’t know—the hope that a superhero inspires.” Alex squeezes against Astra’s hand and prays she feels it, wishes her touch could say what she feels she’s doing so inadequately with words: “Astra, even if you don’t feel like you deserve it…you are worthy.”

Astra breaches the scant centimeters separating them and places a perfect kiss against her cheek, doesn’t linger, but pulls away so slowly Alex can feel the tip of Astra’s nose drag along the skin of her face. Alex inhales deeply and her fingers relax in Astra’s grip as she draws back, catching another whiff of sugary scent from her lips. She tilts her chin up and feels a mild California breeze cut around the corner of her building. It flutters the edges of her hair and sends Astra’s curls hurtling over one shoulder. She feels windswept, dizzy, stranded high above with Astra amid forgotten stars and the sliver of moonbeams.

It’s seasonal perfection, sappy and heartwarming in ways Alex never lets herself be. Our of fear. Out of reason.

But this moment… this perfect, genuine moment…

“Pardon, m-my apologies, I…” Astra babbles uncertainly, a hint of Kara’s deference shining through a characteristically rough exterior. “Was that not the proper Christmas exchange?” Astra mumbles, using her free hand to smooth Alex’s windblown hair.

“Christmas… exchange?”

Astra looks up and back about two feet, where the doors to her balcony open and where Kara (in all of her devious Christmas cheer) has hung a garland and placed a glob of mistletoe right over the threshold.

Alex shakes her head and runs her fingers through her bob to fix the rest of the fly-aways, noticing that she and Astra are still holding hands.

“Sure,” Alex grins, hoping more Christmas talk can shift the mood from melancholy to merry. “Good enough.”

“I did not reach my rank by merely being ‘good enough’, Alexandra,” Astra returns, sorrow still present to her tone, but the words themselves…

_Playful, almost. Was that the hint of a challenge?_

“Well, you’re supposed to be underneath it, for starters.”

Before Alex can blink Astra has wrapped her free arm around Alex’s waist and side-stepped two feet to her left, positioning them squarely beneath the parasitic plant. Perhaps Alex won't go into the specifics of mistletoe composition, because their conjoined hands are smushed in between their torsos and Astra is so close and Alex can feel her knee brushing against Astra’s pant leg.

“And then?” Astra prompts her.

“Well, you kiss whoever’s under the mistletoe with you. So…kiss me.”

Astra tilts her head up, angles so that her lips press against Alex’s brow, so that she can pull her impossibly closer, both of them relishing the fleeting feeling of mutual worth.

“Like that?”

“Not quite,” Alex murmurs, her voice barely a breath between them.

“I suppose I need clearer instruc—”

Alex takes Astra’s chin in hand and presses Astra’s lips against her own. Beneath the mistletoe, five days before Christmas, they share their moment that’s been building for months, lost to callused fingertips and warm sighs and a hint of peppermint and chocolate on the tongue. Alex kisses her like she’s been wanting to all evening, all day, all week and for the past few months, for she’s been so gratified to witness Astra acclimating to this new world. Astra remains so wonderfully resilient despite all the losses she’s suffered, despite the up-hill battle she’s been climbing with human culture. Alex puts all her desire and pride into her kiss at the threshold of her balcony, hoping that one instance of heated affection can reassure any doubts Astra still harbors. It won’t alleviate any pains caused by forgotten names of fallen comrades, but for an instant, a handful of seconds, it might allow Astra to feel like she is worthy of something, worthy of _this_.

Alex finally relents, but not before she drags Astra’s silky bottom lip between her teeth for one amazing send-off. “I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” Alex confesses, panting as she pulls away.

“I have been wanting to do that for much longer than tonight,” Astra murmurs, her eyes still closed, expression shifting toward wistful. Dreamy even. Alex is glad to have wiped the sadness away for the moment. “Is mistletoe exclusive to this holiday?”

“Yes.”

“How unfortunate for us both, then, that our desires align with a holiday only celebrated once a year.”

“You’re a terrible flirt when you try,” Alex grins, moving their linked fingers up to chin level. She places a brief kiss to the back of Astra’s hand.

“No worse than some of the hysterics I saw in that film. It seems human relations are oftentimes upset with… miscommunication?” Astra prompts, still exhibiting some minor uncertainty.

Alex uses the grip on their clasped hands to tug Astra back inside. She leads her to the couch, where they sit much closer than they had when they’d first settled to watch the film.

“Then how about we start being direct?” Alex asks, turning to prop one leg beneath her body. “Astra, I…I want…”

Well, maybe directness is better in theory than application.

“May I kiss you again?” Astra beats her to the punch (much like in the sparring room).

Alex nods and leans in, careless of the rolling credits, the leaping flames of her fireplace, the open doors to her balcony and the curtains billowing inwards on a rogue wind. Kara and James could come flying in at any moment and she would casually motion to a seat off to the side, so long as her lips stayed fused with Astra’s.

“Mmm…”

“That is… I wish to continue with that,” Astra says, sinking slightly into the hold Alex has on her cheeks. She expels breath in huffing little puffs and her face relaxes as Alex traces her thumbs over sharp, regal cheekbones, unable to stop her staring this time. “I am so very fond of you, Alexandra. You have done so much for me, for Kara… I…”

Astra pauses, overcome, and Alex kisses her to fill the silence. The heat intensifies with the interplay of tongue, a lick to a lip and a hand wandering down around a shoulder, settling at the muscled dip of Astra’s waist. When Alex pulls away, she’s the one huffing this time.

“I like you a lot, Astra, I’m…” Again, good in theory, but terrifying as a Hellgramite’s stinger when it comes to saying it out loud. “I care about—I care, you know?” Alex whispers, and it’s a lot more than she’s managed three or four months into some of her previous relationships.

“So we… we are going to proceed as—that is, Kara will likely not approve if we were to—”

“Let’s just… leave it at the kissing, for now?” Alex suggests, leaning in to kiss Astra’s worried frown away. “We’ll figure out the rest after the holidays.”

“That is an option?”

“We can make it one, if you like.”

“I…y-yes,” Astra answers, pulling Alex against her chest so that they both fall back on the couch, warm and close and perfect as a holiday might be. “Merry Christmas, Alexandra.”

“Astra,” Alex kisses her again, keeps kissing her, and mumbles her own _Merry Christmas_ against soothing Kryptonian lips.

 

* * *

 

 

“Alex? Alexandra?”

“Hmmnh?”

Alex turns her head to the side, but keeps her death grip on the pillow. She feels a hint of something wet—crap, _drool_ —dripping out of the corner of her mouth and onto her chin. They’d gone to bed late last night, parting reluctantly with heated kisses in the hallway. They’d retreated to their own bedrooms (as had been the case since their first kiss five nights ago), but Alex had almost extended the invitation to her bed last night, lost as she was in Astra’s lips, in the carols on the radio, in the charge of Christmas Eve magic.

“No, don’t stir, Alexandra,” Astra says, voice low and soothing in the darkness. “I am leaving for several hours, but I will return. It is no cause for worry, go back to sleep.”

“Astra?” Alex sits up and rubs at one of her eyes, still sleep-woozy and warm from the night. Moonlight pours in from the window to her right, but Astra is fully dressed in her standard black, hovering uncertainly over the side of her bed. “Astra, y-you—‘s Christmas morning?”

“I know,” Astra moves to sit at the open space near Alex’s bedside. “I will return in time for the midday Christmas meal. I look forward to meeting your mother.”

“Hmm, that makes one of us,” Alex answers, crawling up on one elbow. Astra pushes the pillow up beneath her so her back has better support, her hand migrating to Alex’s waist once the job is finished. Alex sighs into the touch, wishing Astra would just climb in with her and set her other hand to more vigorous activities. “You’re going to leave? On Christmas?”

“Did you not say you were going to Kara’s early?” Astra asks, and even in the moonlight her concern shines through. She cups Alex’s cheek gently as she gazes down at her. “It will not do for you to be lonesome.”

“No, I, I am… just, where are you going?”

“I have found some good use of my time. For today, at least,” Astra kisses her briefly, a soft comfort in the early morning. “Sleep well, Alexandra. It will be light soon.”

“Back to Kara’s by noon, mm’k?” Alex double-checks, settling back against her pillow at Astra’s urging. Astra leans down and kisses her cheek again, a lovely send-off for another two hour’s extra rest on the holiday.

“I have every reason to return,” Astra whispers, slipping out the window and into what’s left of the night.

 

* * *

 

 

“And your roommate?” Eliza asks, whisking a little more flour into the skillet.

The roux for the gravy begins to thicken and bubble, hot, savory smells wafting from Kara’s stove top as Eliza works her magic. Kara is fretting over the centerpiece and James is running a little late, stuck in holiday traffic after picking Winn up from his apartment. J’onn is standing off to the side, arms crossed over his expansive chest, debating the merits of tulle versus raffia with Kara as she twists the arrangement she’d slaved over for the meal’s décor first to the right, then back to the left. Bing Crosby croons from the electronic insides of Kara’s newest gift from Eliza, a Bose Mini speaker set to softer tones for her Kryptonian hearing.

“My what? Oh, Astra?” Alex asks, taking another not-so-discreet gulp of red wine as she passes the oven mitt to her mother. “What about her?”

“She’s joining us, right?”

“Yeah, she’ll be here.”

“Is she busy on Christmas Day? You haven’t told me about any of her other hobbies besides kicking your butt in the sparring room.”

“Mom!” Alex blurts, retreating into her wine glass as Eliza smirks over the burner.

“A mother worries at overconfidence in the field, Alexandra,” Eliza says, hugging Alex round the waist and placing a kiss to the side of her head. “It would take a Kryptonian to put you in your place.”

“I land a few hits…” Alex mutters, trying to think back on just how much she’s let slip about Astra in her weekly phone calls home.

“Only when I am exceptionally fatigued,” Astra says, waltzing into Kara’s apartment with a red poinsettia in hand, a Santa hat donned adorably askew atop the crown of her head. “My apologies, I did not mean to eavesdrop.”

“Side-effect of Kryptonian hearing, I’m sure,” Eliza says, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “The infamous General Astra In-ze, I presume? And appropriately attired for the holiday, no less.”

“We try to keep the _General_ part somewhat quieter during social gatherings. I hope you will address me as Astra,” Astra says, extending her hand for Eliza to shake. Eliza smiles warmly, and Alex can’t help the little thrill spiking up her spine at the overall pleasantness of the interaction.

“Eliza Danvers, Astra. Happy you could join us. And what do you have there?” Eliza asks.

“It is a Christmas flower, a _Poinsettia_ , or so the inmates told me,” Astra says, placing it on the bar where food and platters aren’t overrunning the counter space.

“Inmates?” Alex asks.

“I went to the National City prison. They gifted me this festive headgear,” Astra says, indicating the white pom-pom at the tip of the red hat.

“When you said you were going out for a while, I thought it was just… to… fly, or something,” Alex says, moving the pom from Astra’s left shoulder to her right so that the hat sits more squarely atop her head. Clad in a grey sweater and dark jeans and topped off with the hat, her cheeks flushed from flight, Astra looks picture-ready.

“You recall our conversation from the previous evening?” Astra asks. “About my ‘celebrity chef’ career?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I saw the volunteering flyer for the prison at the coffee shop when I picked up our breakfast the other day, so I helped cook the meal. I made candied carrots, we deep fried a turkey in some sort of sizzling oil, prepared ham, green beans and—”

“You did all that for the prison’s meal?” Alex asks.

“You got Alex breakfast?” Eliza chimes in.

“Yes…” Astra answers Eliza first, focus ping-ponging between the two Danvers women. “And yes, I helped prepare and serve the feast at the prison. Did you know that humans who are incarcerated are allowed visiting hours from their loved ones? And on Christmas, in some places, they are allowed to eat with their families,” Astra tells them both, as if hoping for confirmation of her conclusions. “Is that true of all your prisons? It is a wonderful idea, an incentive for good behavior. Merciful, even…” Astra nods, and Alex wonders if she’s recalling the terrors of Fort Rozz. Comparatively, human prisons must seem… well, not pleasant or even _merciful_ , but hopefully not inhumane. For Astra to have walked into that place of her own volition, to help those oftentimes forgotten during the holiday season—god, Alex wants to kiss her.

“You cooked… for all of the inmates? Astra, that had to have taken hours!” Eliza says.

“I left early and alerted Alex to my absence. I need very little sleep, so it was no trouble. I did not think it was cause for alarm; Alex knows all about my night-time habits.”

Alex coughs over her wine glass when Eliza glances at her with that knowing mother _look_ , the one that’s cropped up ever since she asked after Alex’s ‘roommate’.

“I’ll bet she does,” Eliza says with a smile, turning back to her task at the burners. “Astra, why don’t you help Alex set the table. You’ve been on this planet half as long as she has and I imagine you could do the job just as well. J’onn can help, too.”

“Very funny, mom.” Of course, a Danvers holiday would not be complete without Alex’s traditional serving of sarcasm. “I actually need to talk to Astra for a second before—”

“The boys are here!” Kara squeals, flying past the trio and toward the front door. “Merry Christmas Aunt Astra!” she says, more as an afterthought, shooting a winning smile over her shoulder as she flings the door open and drags the two super-friends in by their arms.

“Now’s our chance,” Alex mutters.

“Our chance for what?”

Alex leads Astra out to the balcony and around the brick wall, situating Astra between herself and the railing. She places her hands on Astra’s hips and pulls her close, hugging her for the first time that morning.

“I forgot to tell you Merry Christmas,” Alex murmurs. “I didn’t realize you would be gone so long.”

“I made sure to leave on time so as not to miss anything important. I would never miss your celebration if you wanted me here,” Astra answers, curling her fingers around Alex’s arms.

“Of course I want you here. And Kara, and Winn and James and J’onn. Now my mom, too, I guess. We all…” Alex shrugs, rolling the pad of her thumb against the grey sweater covering Astra’s hip. “And you went and picked up the flower as well? Who are you trying to impress?”

“Your mother, of course,” Astra answers seriously. “If I am to request you hand in marriage, I need her approval, yes?”

Alex’s stomach drops.

“…what?”

“I am teasing you, Alexandra,” Astra says, smiling as she takes Alex’s hand in hers. “As for the flower, it was a small gift given to all volunteers for our aid this morning in the kitchens. A trifle, really, but it felt nice to have purpose once more.”

Astra quickly places a kiss to Alex’s knuckles. She turns round and stares at the brick, and Alex wonders if she’s on the lookout for Kara’s x-ray vision.

“Was the hat a bonus, too?”

“Yes,” Astra answers, rotating her neck back and forth so the pom-pom flies, her curls bouncing round her head like soft mahogany springs. “I do not know if it becomes me.”

“I think you wear it very well,” Alex smirks, wondering if it’s too early in whatever they’ve got going between them to be fantasizing about a white fur collar and short red skirt. Alex’s grip tightens against Astra’s hip, and Alex counts it as a win that she does not remark on _making the Yuletide gay._

“You think you’ll go back?” Alex asks instead, fiddling with the edge of the pom, winding her fingers into the curls of Astra’s hair.

“I am unsure. I have spent my fair time in prison cells, so it was… difficult entering the facility, at first.” Astra squeezes Alex’s hand at her hip and inches closer, looking discreetly over her shoulder. “But things become so much easier when I have you to discuss them with. When you explain so patiently, even after all of my ridiculous questioning, and you soothe my concerns,” Alex smiles at Astra in turn, loving this stolen moment on the balcony. They’ve had a handful of amorous exchanges since the movie night, but this is the first time they’ve revisited more serious topics. The beat passes and Alex sighs, frustrated she can’t step closer while they keep what’s between them a secret from Kara and the gang.

“I do feel as if this _volunteering_ could help me better acclimate to human culture,” Astra continues. “Perhaps I will find a new calling.”

“Perhaps,” Alex answers, tucking a wayward curl behind Astra’s ear. She peeks round the corner and back into the kitchen one last time before stealing a kiss, smiling when Astra holds her tighter. “We should go in soon, or else they’ll come looking for—”

“If you two are done,” Eliza steps from around the corner with the speed of a Kryptonian, and Alex and Astra jerk apart. “Dinner’s ready.”

“We uhm… we weren’t doing—”

“Of course you weren’t, Alex,” Eliza says, raising a hand to silence her daughter. Astra tugs at the hem of her sweater while Alex runs her finger over the outline of her lip. Eliza crosses her arms and continues: “Does Kara know?”

Alex manages to respond with a collected _Know what?,_ at the same time that Astra says _She is oblivious_.

“Thought so,” Eliza responds, rolling her eyes skyward.

“Mom, no, we haven’t because it’s—I mean, it’s Christmas and we don’t want to shift the… the—”

“My lips are sealed,” Eliza reassures them, miming a lock and key over her mouth. “At least you picked an alien race I’m already somewhat familiar with, Alexandra.”

“Mom!”

“Come to the table,” Eliza calls, turning on her heel and retreating back into Kara’s apartment.

“Your mother is an astute woman,” Astra says, glancing back through the brick wall.

“I can’t believe she did that,” Alex mutters, running one hand through her hair in agitation. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think anyone was—”

“Please do not distress, Alexandra,” Astra says, taking Alex’s hand and tugging her nearer the balcony door. “I notice your mother calls you that as well.”

“Two people in the universe can get away with it without me threatening to gut them,” Alex replies, releasing her once they get back into the apartment.

“What an honor,” Astra mumbles.

“And… and about Kara, telling her we’re trying—this?” Alex gestures between them as they make their way past the couches. “Let’s just take it slow, okay?”

“Of course,” Astra replies. “We will not look ahead, or worry over anyone’s reactions for now. We will not detract from the happiness of the season, so, for the time being, let us go wish Kara and the rest of your family a Merry Christmas.”

Alex nods and smiles, follows, undeniably smitten, and thinks this holiday might just go down as her favorite Christmas yet.

 

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've also been a terrible human and haven't replied to comments on other works but guess who gets A WEEK OFF FOR CHRISTMAS WHAT and fingers crossed imma be posting and replying and writing up a storm. Let me know if this warmed your hardened hearts or grew them three sizes or what not
> 
> *fixes you cocoa and wraps you in a reindeer blanket for reading my fic*
> 
> **gifts you a virtual Christmas hug if you catch the Elf reference :D**


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